


Small Model of the Barren Earth

by orphan_account



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Abuse, Blood, Corpsey Goodness, Death, Doom, Gen, Murder, Torture, arterial spray, broken bones (ribs specifically), corpse cradling, enough trigger warnings to make a border ballad blush, everything is horrible, grimdarksad, horrible things happening to characters who totally don't deserve it, loss of bladder control, not for those with weak nerves, nothing will ever be ok again ever, oh gosh I have no idea how to tag this, so apparently canon wasn't quite horrible enough, way too much focus on the function of lungs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:33:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is horrible and Bushy and Green end up dead.<br/>Really, this is nothing but graphic depiction of death, I said it was horrible.</p><p>It's like pwp only the death is literal instead of euphemistic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Model of the Barren Earth

**Author's Note:**

> So all the other doomed minionfics end with them being dragged onto the stage for 3.1. This one begins when they're dragged offstage afterwards, so that's its excuse for having a place in this corpus of writing. 
> 
> I apologise to all of Richardclub, Bushy, Green, their historical counterparts, and every actor who has ever played them or ever will. No apologies to Shakespeare, though, he started this and this is what he gets. 
> 
> The text calls for severed heads, but throat cutting suited my purposes better, so let's just say that any dismemberment happens post mortem.

Bushy's mind is a fog of pain. He no longer feels each distinct blow through the diffuse ache that has become his existence.  
He is no longer consciously screaming, but his own agonised voice is still reaching his ears and he can feel each scream pushing itself up from his exhausted lungs and through his raw and tattered throat.

He tries to move, to curl up into the pain and protect himself from the blows, to crawl away, and finds that his limbs will not obey his will. 

Directions have lost meaning, but somewhere through his tear-blinded and blood-stained vision he thinks he sees Green's face.

With a great effort of will, he forces himself into an awareness of his body, and realises that he's thrashing violently. There are sharp points of pain all over where his skin is broken or his bones are cracked. His ribs are a shattered wreck, digging into his lungs with a stabbing jut with every breath, every shriek. One eye is swollen nearly shut and his hose are damp, he must have wet himself. His breath comes small and fast as his lungs desperately claw for air between the screams and his throat burns with every breath, he tries to stop screaming and breathe naturally, but he can no more control his voice than his limbs. He recognises faces; Northumberland, Hotspur, Ross, Bolingbroke himself; hard and cruel and at least a few of them smiling sick smiles. And Green is there, kneeling a few feet distant with his arms outstretched, his eyes staring out terrified from his tear begrutten face.

Bushy's first coherent thought is to try to say something, anything -- to plead for help or say something reassuring, to let Green know that he's here, to take hold of his humanity and articulate something, but the words tangle with the screams and all he manages is a choking gasp.

A sharp blow to the temple sends his vision reeling and he falls back into the stillness of his own mind again.  
He lets his mind curl in around itself and waits there while his body struggles and screams.  
He feels something cold and thin at his neck and he hears Green's voice scream, closer, fresher and more articulate than his own.

"Green, help me." the words form in his mind, but are lost is the sea of blood that's forming in his lungs. His consciousness rushes back down into his body. His limbs grow cold and heavy and still.  
For an instant he becomes acutely aware of every organ in his body scrabbling for life before his vision fades forever to a cold pale grey.

*******  
Bushy had clung desperately to Green and they had ripped him from his arms. It was all over, and there was nothing they could do now but try to be strong for one another and die well, and this was more than either of them could muster.

"More welcome is this stroke of death to me than Bolingbroke to England." He can't have meant it, not if he'd known. The frightening thing is that perhaps he did.  
They've hauled Bushy onto a table and are pummelling him ruthlessly.  
Bushy's shrieks have an inhuman edge now and there's something formulaic and unheedful about his movements, as if he has already died and his body is simply reacting to the blows. Bushy's blind thrashings and mindless cries are more than Green can bear and the sickening sound of shattering bones mingle with the screams that fill the air. Green wants nothing more than to reach out to him, hold him close and tell him it will be all right, even though it won't.  
The stoic Earl of Wiltshire had been with them until recently, and Green realises with a pang that perhaps Wiltshire is not as much fun and is being given a quiet and respectful death. Bolingbroke had said "I will not vex your souls", but York had been present and that show had been for his benefit. 

For a moment Bushy's eyes focus and consciousness floods back into his face. He looks around wildly and then fixes on Green's face for brief instant. Bolingbroke's gauntleted fist slams into the side of Bushy's head and his whole body convulses, the awareness gone from his face.

Hotspur winds his hand in Bushy's blood-matted hair and wrenches his head back. Northumberland drags the point of his dagger along the side of Bushy's neck. Northumberland's smile is sickening to behold.  
"No!" Green cries out, struggling against Ross's hold. "No, no, no, no!" until it's no longer a word, but simply a sound of despair.  
Northumberland drives the dagger into Bushy's throat and rips it back out, leaving a gaping hole and a spout of blood.

Something that might have been speech burbles from Bushy’s lungs and his body shudders convulsively and then goes limp. The silence that follows is uncanny.

The sight of Bushy, his head hanging down and his eyes clouded over, blood still weeping from his open throat, is too much. Green lunges toward him, his own sobs filling the silence that Bushy's voice has just vacated. They aren't holding him back any more, and he gathers Bushy's limp, empty body into his arms, and tears dropping from his salt-blinded eyes onto Bushy's inanimate face. The last tattered shreds of consciousness have left his grey face and blank blue eyes, and his shattered ribs make an unnatural grinding sound as they're moved. There is no one left to be strong for, no one left to plead for, and Green’s wails and prayers fly upward as his friend's lifeless corpse is torn from his arms and Ross's dagger finds its home in his throat.


End file.
